Streets of Paris
by RGaffney
Summary: FrancisxReader. You are an acrobat in the streets of Paris. He is a street artist for tourists. When you run into each other one day, you realize it must be true love.


_*****This is what happens when you listen to France's character songs on long train rides when you forgot to put your other fics on your iPod Touch: You make one-shot FrancexReader fics to keep yourself busy. Yep.**_

_**Me: "Disclaimer: I don't own Hetalia, France, Paris or you." **_

_**France: "Claimer: Your heart." **_

You were a street acrobat. And there was no better place to perform than the streets of Paris. You could almost call it romantic; you, in your white leotard with its small silky skirt (all of it was decorated in silver thread and silver jewels) and the Eiffel Tower in the background, the sides of this picture framed with the old, quaint homes and shops of the city.

One day, you found a nice spot to perform in the intersection of a cobblestone path, in front of a fountain. You set up your large red mat and started to elaborately stretch, making people glance at you and the nearby sign that alerted them to an upcoming show. As crowds started to gather, you didn't see the street artist that settled across the courtyard from you, against a building. He was wearing a white dress shirt with the sleeves rolled up to his elbows and a dark grey vest. He also wore dark pants and dark shoes. His blonde hair was topped off with a dark grey hunter's cap and he wore a black smock to protect his clothing from paints and other art mediums that decorated his easel as well as the brush holder that was tied around his waist.

His thin but expressive eyebrow raised in amusement as you started to play music and started your show. As you started your warm-up tumbling routine, he was distracted by a few tourists that wanted a cheap sketch done. His eyes flew to your petite form every now and then as you continued.

You picked up a parasol from a little toy box that was at the edge of your mat. Opening it up, you gave a quick curtsy to the people before putting the tip on the ground and pulling yourself up on the umbrella, earning gasps from the audience. You stretched and pulled yourself into different positions on the parasol, pausing just long enough for the audience to clap. You beckoned to a child to hand you a ball. It was about the size of a beach ball, but a little heavier. While still balancing on the umbrella, you grabbed the ball with your feet and started to bounce it. People laughed. So did the artist.

In amusement and wonder at your talent, he scratched his chin, pastel dust catching in his stubble, although different colors already decorated his arms and even in his hair. Another person asked him for a picture and he started to work again. Even though his own work attracted people, your entertainment caught more eyes, even the blue ones of the artist.

You landed on your feet from balancing on the parasol and started to do more tumbling. Even though the tourists came and went throughout your act, your one loyal, paint covered admirer kept on looking. Once his last customers left, he decided that he needed a picture of this pure grace and beauty that was in front of him. Just as the thought came into his mind, you started to balance on the ball, little parasol in hand. To the artist, you were a perfect picture of old European circus acrobat. One that belonged in a 19th century poster for a famous act or troop. Your silk skirt swished against your legs as you looked down at the ground. The artist grabbed a pencil and started sketching out your form before you would change positions. When people approached him, the artist waved them off with an indifferent French air and went back to sketching, trying to figure out if pastel or paints would suit your looks better. He went for mixed medium, letting your skin and soft white outfit be pastel and the embroidery and jewels be oil paint. The fountain and mat became watercolor and pastel, smudged and faded to make the point clear that the focus of the picture was you.

You bowed to the audience and stopped your music. As the crowd faded away and you sat down to take a break, you noticed the artist beckoning to you. You went over to him. Blushing, he allowed you to see the painting. You gasped. It could have been taken by a camera it was so good! The soft blending of colors and the faded background were the only giveaways to the fact that this was a painting.

"I tried to make it as accurate as possible." The artist said.

"It is beautiful!" You breathed. You noticed one flaw in his painting. "But I'm not...wearing makeup."

The artist paused and then gave a soft "Hmm".

He took out an alabaster skin pastel stick and used it to cover the one or two pimples that were of your face. Taking out a rose colored stick, he whittled some away with a pocket knife and put a paintbrush to the new dust. He took your face into his hand and brushed your cheeks with the dust. He took out a darker skin color and also brushed dust from that stick on your face, this time over your eyes. Then, he took a delicate brush and a bit of black acrylic paint. Closing your eyes, you allowed the artist to paint your eyelashes. Afterwards, he put red paint on your lips.

"There. My best work so far." The artist said.

"Oh my, thank you so much-" You paused to glance at the artist's watch. "Oh, I'm so sorry! I have to start my next show, oh dear-" your frazzled look made the artist smile.

"_Mon cherie_, what about payment?" The artist asked endearingly.

"Oh my God! I'm so sorry! What do I owe you?" You asked quickly, eager to get back to your show.

The artist pointed to his cheek. Confused at first by his request, you gave him a kiss. The artist turned to a small mirror that he had near his easel and smiled at the new acrylic lip stain that was on his cheek. He turned back to you and kissed you right under your lip, as so to avoid smearing the pastels on your face.

"You had some change." The artist replied. He let go of your hand that you didn't even know he was holding and you returned to your red mat to perform.

Throughout your afternoon show, you couldn't help but look at the artist. He seemed proud of his new mark, happily displaying it. You never noticed how well his hands worked the pastel, pencil and paints at his easel. As you continued your acrobat routine, you started to think maybe you loved this artist. Maybe he loved you. I mean, he used his art mediums for your makeup, which would probably make your skin embarrassingly brake out, but had yet to smear. After yet another show, you went back to the artist. Embarrassed that you didn't have a particular reason for being at his easel, you quickly said: "I didn't catch your name."

The artist wiped his pastel covered hands on a rag that hung out of his pocket. He stood up and took your hand into his and placed a kiss on it, bowing at he did so. "Francis Bonnefoy." The artist said. "And who do I have the pleasure of meeting?"

"_ _" You said.

"...I have to put my easel away at my shop to continue working. Would you like to come with me?" The artist asked after a hesitant moment.

"Sure." You smiled. Maybe you didn't know him that well, but he seemed very nice and you were used to taking risks, right? Risks only an acrobat would take. This wasn't a big deal compared to the other daring things you did.

Somehow, your trip back to Francis' shop ended up being a stroll under the Eiffel Tower in the fading light of the day. Your gravitational center must have been Francis, as you found yourself being pulled to his side, right up against him, no matter how hard you tried to move even a foot away. Then, slowly, Francis took your hand in his. You leaned against his shoulder. After a few minutes passed, you heard his easel and paint box clatter to the ground as Francis whipped around to face you.

At first, you were surprised by the sudden move. Maybe you made a mistake! What if this man was bad! What was he going to do to you? You tried to pull away out of fear, but Francis grabbed your arm and pulled you against him. He slowed down his hurried motions just to hold you against him. He took one hand and rubbed your lower back. His other hand tangled itself into your hair.

Somewhere in the background, an announcer told people to watch for the fireworks show over the Eiffel Tower; just another tourist attraction. A mother yelled at her child. Someone laughed. But everything melted away as you two stood under the Tower.

Francis leaned in and kissed you. Really kissed you. You felt like your breath was being sucked out, but you still could breathe. You felt like your unstable knees would give out, but you were still standing. You felt like you would never part from that kiss, but you did. To find a Frenchman gazing down at you, rubbing your back and holding you close to him. The paint on your lips dried, so no stains were left of Francis, unlike the one that stayed on his cheek.

"_..." Was all he said. It was just enough. He didn't have to finish the sentence.

"I love you too." you whispered.

The sound of the nearby fireworks dully started to enter your ears, reminding you both that you were not alone in this world.

After you reached Francis' shop, a little art shop that displayed his paintings and drawings, Francis stopped you by a lamppost.

"Where do you live? I will walk you home." Francis said.

You gave him the address of your apartment and he nodded, knowing the street you lived on. He dropped off his art supplies and walked you home. When you reached your apartment, Francis gave you a goodnight kiss. When your lips parted, he held up your chin and looked you in the eye.

"You are a wonderful performer, ma belle." Francis said. "I can see that you will go on to do many great things. We might not see each other for a long time. Maybe never again." His expression became melancholy but brightened up as he went on. "But remember this: if you ever see one of my paintings, if there is a woman in the picture, I will give her red lips whenever I think of you, as a reminder of me painting your lips with paint."

"And I will do a cartwheel whenever I think of you." You said.

You bid farewell that night to your artist lover. The next morning, you found a bouquet of red roses at your door. For the next couple of months, you went out with Francis. Then one day, you joined a world traveling acrobatic show. When doing your show in Paris for the opening night of the world tour, you didn't follow your set routine, adding in a few cartwheels, just in case your lover was out there in the crowd, watching you. Your next show was in England and you left behind your artist. Besides the cartwheels that permanently stayed in the show, you also pressed the bouquet of roses to remember your Francis.

And Francis framed the picture of you, keeping it on the wall behind his shop counter. He turned down every offer to sell the painting. You meant much more to him than any amount of money.

And in the Louvre, in a small room that does not have very famous paintings in it, there is a pastel and oil painting. It is an acrobat in a white leotard, holding out her hand to a man covered in paints and pastels, wearing a smock. The man is bowing and kissing the hand of the woman. The painting is called: "The Acrobat and the Artist".

And the acrobat has red acrylic lips.


End file.
